Chaos Theory: Prequel
by Sar'Kalu
Summary: Eventual AU. 1/3. Harry Potter and his associates have been condemned to Azkaban for life with the charge of multiple counts of murder after the conclusion war. They have been betrayed but Chaos is watching them, waiting for them her hands waiting for them to fall so she can gently catch them.


**Title**

Chaos Theory: Prequel

**Author**

Sar'Kalu

**Summary:** _Betrayed by everyone he once cared about, Harry Potter is incarcerated along with a loyal few in Azkaban Prison. All the while, Chaos watches and waits for them all to fall into her gently waiting hands._  
**Rating: **MA15+; character death, violence, sexual acts, implied abuse -physical, emotional and professional-, cannibalism and various unmentionable acts.  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J.K Rowling, Bloomsbury and Warner Bros and their various affiliations; all rights and reservations of any and all quoted in this fan-made fiction are all properly ceded where they are due.

* * *

_"One can say this in general of men: they are ungrateful, disloyal, insincere and deceitful, timid of danger and avid of profit...Love is a bond of obligation that these miserable creatures break whenever it suits them to do so; but fear holds them fast by a dread of punishment that never passes." _

― Niccolò Machiavelli

The hall was poorly lit, the rough uneven stone flooring causing the unwary walker to stumble in their haste to escape the dark confines of the dungeons below. It was a poor misrepresentation by the wizarding public that Azkaban Prison was given such a bad wrap when the Ministerial Dungeons were by far the worst. It was there that convicted criminals lost their hope for a fair trial in the face of a prejudiced judicial system, and there the Auror's -men and women disabused of their purpose by the knowledge that the justice they pursue is a nonexistent dream held by children- pay call to the dark wizards in their cruel charge and take out their frustrations upon the poor unfortunate souls who are languishing in the depths of the cells. Even the renowned and beloved Leader of the Light, Albus Dumbledore, refused to uphold the basic human rights that were generally accepted by late twentieth century non-magical people, leaving the criminals to the dark and cold with dank, rotting straw their only comfort in the period of time they spent in that disillusioning hole of sensory deprivation.

Of course, had the Queen of the United Kingdom or the democratically elected non-magical Government known about the Ministry for Magic's tendency to disregard their subjects human rights or refusal to uphold non-magical law, there would be hell to pay on both sides. Of course, in the intervening years where Magical and Non-Magical Government's slowly but surely drifted apart, it became generally accepted and acknowledged by both Government's that the magical people's of the United Kingdom were solely governed by the Ministry for Magic on the proviso that they upheld the Empire's rights, privileges and current legislation that was relevant to the magical world. Of course, in the past two hundred years this purpose became lost as the Magical people's slowly became more and more isolated, leaving anything non-magical behind them, loosing the fairness and righteousness that the Non-Magical people's took for granted. Going so far in the nineteen fifties to change the name of the Ministry for Magic to the Ministry of Magic, labelling them a secular society free of both Queen and Country and thus ensuring the last traitorous action of the Magical World

None of this mattered however as the legal case of the century was called to order behind two tall stone doors. Each one carved with runes and lined with gold, a major magical conductor. The room beyond the doors was a horse-shoe shaped room with three tiers of dark wooden benches facing a set of tiered desks at the front of the room. Despite the urgency of the case and the high profile of the person involved, the Ministry for Magic had declared it an open viewing and the newly elected Minister, Rufus Scrimgeor had been vindictively pleased to note that the general viewing benches, behind the Chair of the Accused, was packed to the rafters. In fact, it was so full that each person was standing rather than sitting. He smirked coldly in anticipation.

The judicial system of the magical world was a poor representation of justice in every sense of the word. The Wizengamot, a hereditary collection of ancient and noble seats were seated to the right, as the carriers of magical justice they held the power to send even the most innocent of men to prison unable to be challenged in their decision by the public. To the left sat the selected jury, a collection of ordinary wizards and witches who were supposedly unbiased and and uninvolved with the current state of affairs. Naturally, because the accused was such a high profile person, he should have been brought up on trial before the International Confederation of Wizards, not the British wizarding public. Of course, had the laws and rules of the British magical system actually been carried out as they ought, the accused would never have faced trial in the first place.

In front of the great stone doors that barred their the way into the u-shaped wood and stone auditorium stood two guards and the accused. Neither guard had anything to say to their prisoner, their eyes flinty and faces carved like stone as they stared stoically in front. The prisoner between them was a man with little to say and even less to hope about; the trial was a farce, he knew that, there was no chance of him escaping 'justice' as it was so called. Disregarding everything he had learned about the magical world, Harry Potter knew a fake trial when he saw one.

The doors swung open and the room beyond was silenced in their eagerness to see the accused in person. There was an awful air of anticipation and blood lust, and more than one of the audience was panting in a disgusting parody of desire and heated enthusiasm. Even the great and noble Albus Dumbledore was on the edge of his seat, blue eyes twinkling, not with his usual barmy happiness but with malicious pleasure. He exchanged a smug glance with Scrimgeor who leant backwards, trying to appear cool, calm and collected; and failing, badly.

"Bring forth the Accused." A deep gravelly voice stated calmly.

Harry was marched forwards by his unnamed guards, their feet beating out a precise military tattoo on the stone floras they crossed the threshold and entered the auditorium. There was a pause, a breath before the storm and then there was an explosive cacophony of noise. The screams and taunts of the audience was an array of insults and cruel jibes. Each one designed to hit the accused the hardest, only they fell short of their intended target. The accused knew what would happen, the accused was also adept at wandless silencing charms, and so the accused was seated in the chair before the Minister in a blissful state of silence to his own ears.

Harry leaned back, his robes were ripped and filthy from the beating the guards had given him each day something 'new' was released about him to the press. Despite privacy laws and the obviously trumped up charges, the wizarding public had been given leave to read all about the so-called cruelties and malicious acts that the (in)famous Harry Potter had committed. Harry felt like rolling his eyes, really now, he mumbled to himself, the public was so thick they'd believe anything. But then, Harry had developed a rather blasé outlook to modern wizarding politics, knowing that despite every sacrifice he had made, nothing would change.

Minister Scrimgeor leaned forwards, his eyes fevered with excitement at politically taking down the famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Deny-Him-Everything. Scrimgeor was not a man of sound breeding, but then, no pureblood truly was, and so when the intoxicating wave of magic that had killed Voldemort and fifty of his most dangerous Death Eaters, had rolled over him like a tide of sex, blood and feverish imaginings, Scrimgeor, along with half-a-dozen other magicals, had raced to the sight eyes crazed by bloodlust and sexual fever. Falling before the stunned and exhausted youth in an insane array of crazed muttering as they, each and everyone of them, propositioned the young half blood who had done the whole world a favour and killed an insane tyrant.

Harry had naturally refused.

Which had led him to this position of cruelly tied up to a chair in front of the entire ministerial body, his robes thin and ripped, giving the Minister a good long look at the lithe frame beneath his clothing, on trumped up charges all because he had refused to get down on his knees and suck the Minister's cock. And this was the famed and 'unprejudiced' judicial system of the magical world. Harry sneered.

Scrimgeor slammed his gavel down on his desk three times, calling for silence in the stone courtroom.

"Hear ye, hear ye,the accused, one Harry James Potter, has been brought forth to answer to his crimes of sixty counts of murder most grievous and various other petty crimes that shall not be mentioned.

"The Accused is now called forth to answer, what say he to these charges, guilty or not?"

The oratory of Scrimgeor's voice was deep and meaningful, and Harry had, sometime early this morning, been given a choice by the excited and eager Minister who had visited him in a fit of strange feverish imaginings. Should he plead innocent, he would be found innocent, but in return he would become the Minister's personal whore. Should he plead guilty, he and his 'associates' would be sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison in the High Security Section which was crawling with dementors. Harry didn't think that this was much of a choice, after all, who would actually choose to become an old man's cock sucking whore?

"Guilty." Harry replied.

Harry refused, on principle, to become a ministerial toady, and even worse, the Minister's personal whore. Scrimgeor's mouth tightened, he had clearly been hoping for Harry to plead innocent, and was now suffering from the after affects of shattered delusions. Harry smirked blatantly at the snarling man, sending Scrimgeor over the edge and into a feral display of lost control. Really, he was an elected member of the magical government, he should have some self control, Harry thought.

"Bring forth the associates!" Scrimgeor roared, his vexation and anger saturating his voice.

Harry watched as five chairs were lined up beside him and watched as Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape and Neville Longbottom were seated beside him. These were his associates? Harry smirked slightly, how surprising. He wondered if Scrimgeor knew just how much Snape and Malfoy hated him. Also, where were Ron, Luna and Neville? Surely they should be present for the party.

"How's it going?" Harry drawled.

Hermione shot him a vexed look. "Shut up, Harry." She spat, fear dancing like a naked flame in her brown eyes.

"I see how it is." Harry sighed, mockingly smirking up at the infuriated Minister.

"I will have silence in this court!" Scrimgeor roared. "These five associates of Harry James Potter are guilty by association and are hereby charged with malicious intent to free their leader, seven counts of murder most grievous and plotting to overthrow the Ministry."

"Is that all?" Harry asked smirking. "Only seven counts of murder? You guys need to get your game on, I have sixty."

Snape and Malfoy rolled their eyes, blatantly bored by Harry's confident exterior.

"Must you joke about this, Harry?" Hermione demanded, tears streaking her pale face.

Harry shrugged. "What else am I going to do?" He asked quietly.

Hermione had no answer for that and subsided back into her shell of fear and shock.

"Take them away!"

Harry blinked. Apparently Scimgeor had finished discoursing on his supposed crimes and now was ordering himself thrown into prison with his five... associates. Interesting how things turned out. Harry began to laugh madly as his two guards picked him up, their hands cruelly digging into his armpits and their impatient strides dragging him along mercilessly along the stone corridor where the portkey to Azkaban waited. He was powerful enough to escape from this and yet.. he didn't. There was no sane reason why, perhaps in his sorrow and anger at having to kill people he felt on some level that he deserved this. Whatever the reason he was now a prisoner of the worlds 'supposedly' worst prison, and all he could think to do was to laugh loud and long, because who knew how long he would sit and rot in that damp, dank place.

And so Harry laughed.

X X X

The prison cell was two metres by two metre box, there was enough room to lie down in if you were short enough, but hardly enough room to do anything else. The straw was mangy and was slowly rotting away even as he huddled on its surface. Azkaban Prison sat in the middle of the northern sea, the biting wind managed to slip through the cracks in the stone work and the prisoners were never allowed anything more than the rags that they wore. More than one inmate was found frozen to death in the depths of their cages each morning, and those who shared their space with another huddled together, uncaring for propriety as they tried to conserve body heat.

Three times a day the guard would come by with their food. For breakfast the inmates were given a litre of bitter water flavoured with herbs, the properties of which dulled the inmates ability to sense their magic; a slice of bread, thinly spread with rancid butter made their noon meal, while a thin soup of cabbage, pork rinds and a single potato was their dinner. It was a meagre existence of roughly one thousand three hundred calories a day, just enough to keep them alive. Where a normal, healthy adult required close to three thousand calories a day, the inmates of Azkaban prison were forced to survive on less than half.

To be frank, inmates were not supposed to survive long in Azkaban Prison; it was literally a death camp and every little thing was designed to ensure that you died a swiftly and cleanly as possible. That Sirius Black and the Death Eater's survived close to fifteen years each, was a miracle of the human spirit. Most were dead within a year. The guards turned a blind eye to the atrocities within, each one a firm believer of Ministerial policy and more than one was sick enough to take advantage of the lost souls within. After all, who needs a girlfriend at home if you have close to three thousand people willing to do whatever it took to survive another day?

Harry huddled in his ridiculously small cell with his five associates, apparently the ability to commit a crime together resulted in having to share a two metre block cell with five other people. Every three hours or so they took turns in sitting down, their weak and aching legs unable to withstand standing for so long. They had been here for five months already, the bleak stone walls were undecorated unlike the person in the cell across from them. The thick dark lines marked each day the man had been there, although he had stopped counting after one thousand and eight hundred. Everyone stopped counting after a while. Harry grunted as he rolled his shoulders and he leaned heavily against the wall beside him, his eyes dull in their weariness. Beside him, Neville was silent, he had wept for the first three months, but he soon grew quiet. Everyone grew quiet after a while.

There was a rough clanking and the sound of bolted doors being opened. It was meal time. Sure enough five pieces of bread were shoved onto the lintel on the metal door, a pair of maliciously gleaming eyes framed by lank brown hair in a thin face glinting through the peephole. Harry sighed, ignoring the mans expression and picked up two slices, bolting down his own, Harry crouched awkwardly beside Hermione who was unconscious on the floor. Roughly shaking the woman awake, Harry encouraged her to eat her meal. He was unaware of the eyes that watched his every move and ears that heard his every word.

"C'mon, Hermione, eat up. You've gotta keep your strength." Harry said calmly, his stomach hollow and churning with the foul bread and butter he had just eaten. Rooting food, yet another way of killing the inmates just that little bit quicker.

The guard stood there silently for a moment before disappearing as swiftly as he had come. They were some of the last prisoners in their cell block, their door was made iron bars and had it not been for the strange singing of the prisoner across from them, they might have believed they were alone here in this hell hole. Hours dragged by and soon Hermione was forced to stand so that Snape could take her place. Harry sighed heavily and sagged against the weight of his barely conscious friend, he could escape from here. . .

. . . So why didn't he?

X X X

Hands thudded heavily against the door, and the five prisoners leapt away from the sound, terror shining in their eyes. What new torture had the warden thought up for them? What would the be forced to endure now? The door was torn away from its hinges and cruel hands reached in to pick up four of the five prisoners. Harry was left behind, frightened, he huddled against the muddied walls, feeling the fresh bite of the cruel wind from outside his little cell. There was no warmth now, what little had been conserved was ripped away by the biting wind.

"What's going on?" He asked, terror stricken.

The guard sneered cruelly. "Warden's decided to give you all a lovely new cells. No sense in keeping you all locked up together. We've got plenty of room after all." The guard laughed cruelly and slammed the door back in place, leaving Harry alone in his cell.

Harry stared in shock as he realised that he could see outside now, it had been too cramped before between the bodies and limbs tangled around each other. Joy flitted through his mind as he inched his way forwards, noting with shock that Hermione was in the cell in front of his, Neville and Malfoy on either side. The strange man had died last week, leaving nothing but the scratches on the walls of his cells behind. Harry hadn't known his name, nor had he seen his face; he'd only known the brief bouts of song that spoke of a sixth person in the cell block. He smiled at the weary woman and waved brightly.

"Hey Hermione." He said brightly.

"Shurrup!" The guard barked, pulling out a thin baton and striking Harry as he crouched near the bars.

Harry yelped and retreated into the filthy cell and stared injuriously up at the cruel guard. Laughing, the other man sauntered away, using his baton to rattle the bars of each cage, sending the prisoners scuttling away like rats in a barn. Harry crept towards the bars once more, his movements cautious and careful.

"Hermione?" He asked.

Hermione didn't answer and Harry understood why the others had been removed. Group people together an they become invested in each others survival. Remove them from one another and the chances of survival drop dramatically. For the past month Harry and Neville had been the sole reason for Hermione's continued survival. Now she had less of a chance of living for much longer. Harry bit back a sob and with desperate eyes, tried to reach his old friend, his thin hands stretching between the bars, but Harry was barely two metres tall and the corridor was close to three metres in width. There was no hope of reaching Hermione as she was.

X X X

It began as a whisper, a thread of unnatural sound accompanied by the frenzied screams of a new prisoner. Harry crouched in the corner of his cell, his eyes never leaving the empty cell that had once held Hermione Granger. She had died some four months ago, her brown eyes locking with Harry's even as her soul slipped free of her mortal confines. Beside Hermione's cell were Malfoy and Neville, each one pressed against the walls that separated them from Hermione. Neither knew she had died, and Harry didn't have the heart nor the mind to tell them.

They had been stuck in Azkaban for close to two years now; Hermione had lasted another six months after the sudden cell change before she had expired. Harry's cell walls were decorated in the futile scratchings of a mad man, his hazy green eyes fevered by dreams and imaginings. The cold and the damp were affecting them all, settling in their lungs and burning their skin with the cold. In the cell next to Harry's, Snape crouched unhappily, his breath rattling like a dementors as he tried to drag sufficient air into his abused lungs.

Outside their cells stood a lone dementor, their sole guard, it's black cloak fluttering in the wind and rain that leaked through the poorly sealed walls. Harry fancied that the dementor was fairly fond of them, and he often stared, unnervingly at the creature, a small smile twisting his lips. The dementor never paid him any mind however, it simply stood there and fed upon the last of their sanity. The voice returned and Harry shivered at its caress, it had been coming and going for the past four months now, and Harry fancied it was Hermione trying to reach for him beyond the grave. After all, Hermione wouldn't leave him behind, she wouldn't give up so easily.

_Come with me and I'll take you away forever_

Harry smiled slightly. Such a pretty voice, such a lovely voice. Such an impossible voice.

"Shut up, Harry." Draco rasped, his silvery eyes gleaming in the half light. "You're insane."

Harry frowned. Had he been singing again. His eyes slid away from the blondes thin features, and once more began to search for the pretty voice.

"Where are you?" Harry hissed under his breath, sliding into parseltongue once more. "Pretty voicey, lovely voicey, where are you?" Harry dragged each word out, long and sibilant; he crooned like a mother over her beloved child.

Neville shuddered at the singing rasping voice of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Was-Insane. The unpleasant reality of Azkaban was nothing to be compared to the reality of the Ministry's dungeons, where you were more often then not, completely forgotten, and yet, even Neville would admit that Azkaban deserved its reputation. The rain whipped mercilessly against the shadowed form of the dementor, and even Malfoy had to drag his eyes away from Harry's madly glowing eyes and slippery mouth.

"Potter! Shut up!" Snape snapped angrily, his thin arm snaking out from between his bars and snatching at Harry's own as he tried to reach the silent dementor. Harry loved that dementor, it would occasionally brush against the bars of his cage, and Harry would try and snatch at the ripped cloak and robes, playing games to trip the tall creature up. He was the only prisoner who did so.

_Come with me and I'll take you away forever and ever_

Harry giggled madly and grinned, drool sliding down his mouth and his eyes unfocused as they stared at the dementor. The Dark creature stared back at the inmate, apparently confused by the prisoners actions, or so it seemed. Snape growled again and caught Harry's hand, his thin fingers holding unnatural strength as he attempted to break Harry's bones. Pain occasionally broke through the stupor on Harry's mind, and Snape bared yellowed teeth in fierce delight at hurting the son of the tormenter of his childhood once again.

"Cease and desist!" He growled.

Harry giggled madly and clung to Snape's hand which was just within reach. He pulled Snape closer and bared yellow rotting teeth and sank them deeply into the flesh of Snape's hand. Snape howled like a wounded dog and flung himself backwards, tearing his hand from Harry's bloodied mouth and wept silently, cradling his wounded fist to his body. Harry laughed again, the insane tones ringing against the stone floors and ceiling as Malfoy and Neville watched in bewitched horror.

"Fuck Potter, you insane bastard!" Snape sobbed, his nerves shot through from living in constant hell.

Harry giggled once more, subsiding into singing for that lovely whispering voice once again, and his companions shivered in their cells. Before them all the dementor stood, silent and ever watchful as Snape slid into fevered nightmares and the hauntingly sibilant song that Harry sang lulled his companions to sleep.

X X X

There was a heavy metal clang and Harry jerked awake, his green eyes startlingly lucid as he stared around his enclosure. It was the yearly tour by the ministry, ensuring that the criminal's convicted to a torturous existence in Azkaban still lived. The ring of swift footsteps followed the Minister and associates down the hard, cold floor corridor, announcing their arrival to the four inmates. Harry crouched, naked, in his cell, his robes had long since disintegrated and he awaited, as did Neville, Malfoy and Snape, for the new ones that were gifted on these visits.

The new robes were free for all inmates in a show of the Ministry's bounty and kindness upon the cruel wretches and dregs of wizarding society. Harry giggled, his green eyes sliding past the spot where the absent dementor usually stood, and there was a pause in the approach, clearly word had got out that Harry was dangerous and mad. Snape hacked a heaving cough, the sickle moon scar on his hand showed the bite of Harry's affections, and Malfoy spared the man a concerned glance before huddling down deeper into the matted and filthy straw on the floor of his cell. Neville was silent, he had been for the past year; they were approaching three years in this hell hole now, and Neville knew that they wouldn't all last for another three. Snape himself, had not been a young wizard when he had been incarcerated, and now, nearing fifty-four, the man was dangerously sick.

"Minister, inmate 5432, Severus Snape, convicted of several counts of murder; inmate 5433, Draco Malfoy, convicted of the same crime; inmate 5435 Harry Potter, convicted of the same crime; inmate 5436, Neville Longbottom, convicted of the same crime."

It was the Warden of the Prison, a man of ill repute and even worse temper; Harry giggled at the sight of the flat brown eyes, dark brown hair and pallid complexion of his guard. Neville drew deeper into his cell as those cold eyes trailed over his naked body and Draco hunched deeper into his mouldy straw, each avoiding that horrid gaze.

"The inmates are naked." The Minister noted, his fevered eyes dragging over Harry's body, a cruel twist to his thin lips and he licked them lightly as he contemplated lecherous thoughts. Perhaps now as an insane and mentally unstable prisoner, Potter would be more likely to. . . cede to his demands.

The Warden shrugged unconcerned. "Their clothing rots off them eventually, Azkaban prison doesn't have the funds it once did, what with the influx of criminals." He shrugged again. "The sooner these four die, the sooner this level can be freed up for other's to use, as it is, the tenth level is getting cramped."

The Minister listened to the wardens complaints carefully, apparently disinterested in the man's whinging. His aid was watching the four men with disgust and fear evident in his eyes, and Harry let out a sharp bark, similar to a dogs to make the man jump. It was effective, and Harry grinned maliciously at the Minister's reaction. The Minister noted the cruel delight in this emerald eyes and his mouth tightened angrily.

"They can miss out on the Ministry's generosity." He decided, cruel delight at the slight moans this drew from the prisoners shining in his dark eyes. "Murderers deserve to be punished for their actions, don't you agree Warden?"

The Warden hastened to agree, his words tripping over each other while he warily watched the worst murderer in the history of wizarding Britain grin with bared teeth and challenging eyes at the Minister. There was a history there, and he wanted nothing to do with it. The Warden led the Minister from the cell block, carefully pointing out the signs of wear that he had asked to be fixed or had been fixed recently on Azkaban Prison's declining budget. The Minister shot one last glare at the unrepentant prisoner and shivered as his green eyes flashed maliciously.

"Dammit, Potter." Malfoy groaned, subsiding into his rotted straw and blankets.

Neville snorted at the other man's complaint, amused. "Like Scrimgeor would've actually given us anything."

Snape coughed heavily, his breath rattling in his chest and shook his head tiredly. He was dying and there was nothing to be done for him. It was simply a matter of time. Potter had gone back to crooning his sick lullaby and Snape felt slightly comforted by the boy's consistent behaviour, at least he could count on Harry never changing, even if the bastard had been the one to get them into this situation in the first place.

"Who said hell wasn't fun without friends?" Severus snarked, laughing madly.

Draco giggled and pulled himself upright and staggered to the bars. "Not wrong, Sev'rus." He grinned. "I'm rather enjoying our stay here!"

Neville cackled.

"Nice, Neville. You been practising?" Severus rasped, coughing and spluttering from the effort, blood flicking his lips.

Neville grinned, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Sure have."

"Shut up down there, you're here to reflect on your actions, not make friends!" A guard roared down the stairwell, ignoring the Minister's reproving gaze.

"Control your prisoners, Mr. Robbins."

"Yes sir, Minister." Robbins agreed, wincing as the mad howls of the most dangerous inmates echoed up the stairwell to the Minister's ears. "I'll go shut them up sir."

Robbins stumped down the stairs, trying to ignore the way the Warden's eyes burned on his back. Potter was the only prisoner not pressed up against the bars, which Robbins felt an odd sort of gratitude for as Potter's green eyes were really freighting to look at.

"Get back!" He ordered. "And shut up!"

Potter lifted his head and cackled madly. Green eyes gleaming through the strands of knotted hair. Longbottom and Malfoy giggled a high pitched counterpoint while Snape rasped heavily in his corner, dark eyes fixed on Robbins' terrified face.

"Scared of the prisoners, newbie?" Snape asked hoarsely.

Robbins stiffened in indignation and stepped closer. "No!"

"Are too!" Potter singsonged mockingly. "Icky Baby Robby Robbins is scared of us!"

Robbins bared his teeth and snatched up his baton, striding to Potter's enclosure and stuck the stick through the bars trying to beat the prisoners bowed shoulders. It happened so quick, Draco would've missed it had he blinked. Potter launched himself forwards,a coming the wildly swinging baton and with clawed hands, ripped out Robbins' throat in a single violent twist. Blood sprayed across the mans face and the scarlet drops contrasted with the triumphantly gleaming emerald eyes.

Robbins collapsed with a gargle, blood pumping from his ruined throat and Harry grasped the man's still warm arm and tried to pull the corpse through the bars of his cage. With a horrible squelching pop, the arm tore free and Harry bared his filthy teeth in pleasure, sinking them into the raw flesh. Draco gagged and turned his face away while Neville let out a snarl and tried to grasp the corpses feet, hunger burning in his gaze.

"Me! Me!" Neville chanted hungrily.

Harry snarled, the feral sound rumbling in his chest and he tossed the torn arm towards his friend. Neville snatched the arm up and disappeared into the depths of his cage with his; his eyes burning darkly above the bloodied stump and his blood soaked chin and white teeth were a truly horrific sight to see. Harry ripped the second arm free and tossed it to Draco, who, despite his intense nausea at the idea, snatched it up and unintentionally mimicked Neville's movements, crouching over the arm like a starving dog. Severus was awarded with a leg, his bony hands dragging the slightly pulped leg into his cage with hurried movements while Harry struggled to drag the last leg and torso into his cell unnoticed.

Only the skull was left in the centre of the corridor, the chin and the back of the head having caught on a bar and subjected to a forceful yank that sent it skittering away from Potter's cell. It lay resting on the lower mandible , the hazy eyes left to stare up the stairwell as if in silent accusation for his unnoticed death. The inmates however, gorged on their stolen meat, feeling full for the first time in years, their eyes falling shut in the distinct pleasure of knowing their stomachs were close to bursting from overfilling. Their prizes were buried beneath the piles of rotting straw and blankets that made up their beds.

It would be another two days until the murder was found out, by which stage there was very little left of Stuart Robbins but a small pile of bones in four cells and a slowly decomposing skull on the corridor floor.

X X X

It was decided upon the death of Stuart Robbins that the four men who had killed the new Guard of Azkaban were far too dangerous to live. It was all very well to lock men up for life, but when they started to threaten the Guard's who gave up 'everything' to work at the 'most' inhospitable place on Earth; well you had a problem. The wizarding world was up in arms over the situation and Minister Scrimgeor was close to being sacked for incompetence over the issue. It was a tender problem for the entire Ministry and the answer, came from the most unlikely of places.

The idea had come from the new Head of Unspeakable's, Rodger Springer. Springer was a pureblood with big ideas and little sense to execute them and when his most prized colleague Kyle Tyson had come forwards with an idea to study the Veil of Death, Springer had leapt at the chance to show off the prowess of his usually overlooked department. The Minister had been incredibly grateful to have the appearance of actually doing something while aiding the Department of Mysteries' important research.

Two weeks later the entire ordeal had been hashed out, the prisoners were escorted to a Ministry holding cell while the Minister gave a Wonderful speech regarding the 'protection of wizard kind' and the 'furtherance of ministerial goals'; which pretty much ended with the Minister announcing the fate of the wizarding worlds Hero-turned-Dark-Lord. The very public execution style benefits gig that would simultaneously kill of the last of the Minister's opposition while getting loads of important witches and wizards to donate large sums of money to the Ministry's coffers for a front row seat to the most public execution in recent history.

All in all the day promised to hold much in the way of benefits for the Minister, for which he was most pleased.

It would take less than two hours, the V.I.P's milled around making polite conversation while the Minister posed impressively on a mahogany stage with the gently fluttering Veil as a most awe-inspiring backdrop. The papers would have this as their front cover and the Minister would kid himself later on, that this had been the reason as to why the special edition of the Potter Execution had sold out so swiftly.

Within an hour of arriving the V.I.P's were seated and politely awaiting the arrival of the convicted criminals who had caused them all so much grief. Tears and sobs abounded aplenty as Potter and Malfoy were escorted to the base of the Minister's dais, Snape and Longbottom on the opposite side, each duo was chained to the other and facing away from the quietly condemning crowd to stare into the Minister's appropriately grave face. Harry smirked unrepentantly, green eyes gleaming in silent challenge, causing Minister Scrimgeor to lose his thread of thought momentarily.

"Lady witches and gentle wizards, it is my great sadness today to bring forth the accused murderers Harry James Potter, Severus Tobias Snape, Draco Lucius Malfoy and Neville Frank Longbottom to be executed by the way of the Death Veil..."

The Minister continued to speak at length on their crimes and the cause of their execution. Harry stopped paying attention early on, instead he swept his green eyes along the length of the audience, each one staring back at him, glaring with sad fury as if they couldn't understand his actions. He sneered and exchanged a dark glance with Draco who rolled his eyes. Their legs were aching by the time Minister Scrimgeor had finished speaking, his chest puffed out arrogantly and with an grand gesture, allowed his Auror's to grab each criminal by their shoulders and march them up to the Veil's mouth.

Harry was the first to go, his cackling laughter as he fell backwards reminding Neville all too poignantly of Sirius Black's own death before he too was tossed unceremoniously into the Veil. Draco was swift to follow, haughty even in execution, staring down imperiously at the men and women who had sentenced him to death. Snape coughed his way to the Veil, each hacking heave nearly dialodging him from the Auror's grip, and at the last moment, slipping free and tumbling through the Veil, smirking triumphantly at the frustrated expression of the Minister who watched him go. Severus Snape had been controlled to all his life, and in the moment of his execution, grasped that control back and went to his death on his own terms, gloating al the while.

The Minister stood uselessly for a few moments before hastily sending the audience away, the Unspeakable's pleased to have their domain back under their control. It had been awfully anticlimactic, the Minister reflected disappointedly as he relaxed at his desk fiddling with a quill. Perhaps the next execution wouldn't be half so publicised and so less of a disappointment. Unnoticed to his assistants, Rufus Scrimgeor had just taken the final step towards becoming a 'Dark Lord' which was, in all honesty, just another name for Dictator.

It would take another five years before anyone realised just what had gone wrong, but by that stage, it was far, far too late.

X X X

Eris seated herself upon a backless marble bench in the delicately perfumes and gloriously flowering gardens of Mount Olympus. Beside her sat a basket filled with the five orbs of her five chosen who had been reunited in the aether; their deaths signifying the death of an age in one world while in another, it might well be a new beginning. If this worked out well, she conceded to herself. Which it would.

One delicate hand reached out to pluck the five relevant orbs from the basket that Thanatos had gifted her with upon their death's through his Veil. Staring into their metallic depths, Eris smirked darkly and with her free hand, swept up a second basket, there lay a single orb fragile fractures running along its surface and she looked at it delightedly. Violet eyes gleamed with cunning as she reunited the six in both her cupped hands and stood.

Striding carefully across the courtyard, Eris carried the six orbs to a nearby pool and as she crouched at its edge, she breathed across each bestowing upon each orb a gift of her choosing to aid them in the course of her quest. Eris cradled the orbs close to her breast with one hand and with her second scooped up another orb from the silent pool. Carefully settling five of the orbs into her lap, Eris smiled darkly and gently combined the new orb with the fractured, combining them into one dark obsidian orb that reminded Eris of the night sky. Humming an forgotten tune, Eris then dropped the combined orb into the pool and watched it swirl into a thread of pure darkness, weaving into the strands of light and darkness that inhabited the pools base and she smiled, pleased.

Five more times Eris scooped up a new orb from the pool of light and dark and then combined with one of the six she had held in her hands. Once combined the orbs were dropped back into the pool once more and were recombined with the tapestry that lay beneath the waters surface. Each time the orbs rewove into the tapestry, Eris smiled in deepening pleasure.

Once the six recombined orbs had been rewoven into the Tapestry, Eris stood once more, brushing off her impeccable dress of green silk. Behind her movement sounded and the dark haired woman spun in surprise, her violet eyes widening in shock as a tall man with white hair and blue eyes stepped from the shadows of an alcove. His classical features bore deep scars and his eyes burned with darkness; handsome as he was, Thanatos was not someone to take lightly. Eris smiled, trying to appear innocent, her eyes opened wide.

"What mischief have you concocted now, Eris?" Thanatos asked, his dark voice deeply seductive.

Eris tilted her head, allowing her dark hair to fall over her shoulder in a veil. "I have no idea of what you speak, Thanatos."

Thanatos raised a brow and strode over to the waters edge and frowned. "This is not the original world the souls came from, Eris. I will not ask again, niece. What mischief do your create?"

"Will no one forgive me for the Apple Incident?" She complained, pouting.

Thanatos smirked darkly. "Aphrodite has still not forgiven you for Troy's Fall, my darling Eris, as well you now."

Eris shrugged indifferently and turned to stare at the pool, appearing for all the world as an innocent girl wrongly accused. Thanatos was not fooled.

"Eris." He murmured warningly.

"I combined the souls you gave me with those who would die without them and sent them to live a new life. They will cause chaos and strife true, but they will also bring about change and make life better for it." Eris finally explained, ignoring her Uncle's disapproving expression. She lifted her head and stared into cerulean eyes challenging. "They shall remember some of their past lives upon meeting each other once more, I'm not so cruel after all."

Thanatos highly doubted that, Troy had been slaughtered, raised to the ground and then salted. If that wasn't cruelty, he didn't know what was. "So I see."

"You can't do anything, Thanatos. What's done is done." Eris said defensively, crossing her arms.

Thanatos smirked and regarded his niece calmly. "And what will you do when Zeus finds out?" He inquired pointedly. "Because he will, even you cannot be so foolish to expect him to remain oblivious when the fates find six mew threads to their Tapestry."

Eris' eyes sparkled brilliantly. "That is my genius. I combined their souls with six pre-existing souls. There is nothing to find."

Thanatos was reluctantly impressed and eyed the pool. "Will you watch their progress, aid them if need be?"

"Of course not." Eris shook her head scornfully. "I am the Goddess of Chaos and Strife, not molly-coddling."

Thanatos rolled his eyes at her attitude, Eris was difficult at the best of times and decided that keeping an eye on the situation was probably a good idea. There was no telling what could go wrong if he didn't. Eris was Chaos and was thus impossible to predict. He sighed heavily, he knew he would deserve an 'Uncle of the Millennium' award for this. Bailing Eris out. . . . Again.

"Very well Eris." Thanatos sighed again, staring at his impulsive yet undoubtably favourite niece tiredly. "Let us join the festivities then. That is, if you are finished?"

Eris smirked broadly and twisted into a graceful crouch, staring into the midnight dark pool. She leant over the glassy water and breathed across it, sending ripples across the surface and six threads gleamed gold for a moment, announcing their unnatural identities for all to see and Thanatos sighed once again. Eris' brand of mischief took some getting used too, that was for certain; although, after three millennia one would think there wasn't anything left to get used to. How wrong they were, Thanatos snorted.

"Come, Eris, it is time to party."

Eris' laughter echoed through the courtyard like a ringing bell and Thanatos, for all that he was exasperated with her, felt himself smile.

* * *

**A/N:**

_Part Two of the Chaos Theory Trilogy has been uploaded, both 'Chaos Theory' and 'Chaos Theory: Prequel' remain un-beta'ed and so will have a few mistakes –grammatical, and otherwise–, should you, the Reader, find any, it would be helpful for me to know. In addition, should you find yourself in the position to offer yourself as a Beta for both fictions, I would be most grateful. Kind regards, Sar'Kalu._


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